


Devereaux

by TanyaReed



Series: Devereaux [1]
Category: Castle, Leverage, The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6619531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanyaReed/pseuds/TanyaReed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would the Castle pilot have looked like with the characters from Leverage and the Librarians?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devereaux

**Author's Note:**

> I stuck mostly to the original Castle pilot for my storyline, changing it up a little and adding some original scenes to the mix, but keeping the main points. (The original storyline belongs to Andrew Marlowe, this is just a different interpretation of it.) I'm hoping that there's enough original stuff and enough of Eliot and Sophie and me in it to make it interesting even if you've seen the Castle pilot. I'm planning a sequel that will use these characters but with a completely original storyline. I had so much fun with this story that I wanted to branch off and do something all my own but still in the AU Castle universe.

“Do I really have to go to this party?” Parker asked, frowning into the mirror and holding her dress up against her body. “I hate these things.”

Sophie came up behind her and placed her hands on her sister's shoulders. “Come on, Parker. It will be good for you.”

Parker didn't look as if she believed her as their eyes met in the mirror.

“It'll be fun,” Cassie added.

“See,” Sophie encouraged Parker with a squeeze of her shoulders, “Cassie is excited.”

“Cassie's always excited,” Parker grumped. 

Not at all insulted, Cassie told her, “The world is an exciting place.”

The three of them were getting ready to go to a party celebrating the upcoming release of Sophie's latest book, Storm Falls, and Sophie felt almost as if she were wrangling children instead of grown women. Both of her sisters had faced challenges that had caused them to spend most of their developmental years being sheltered by their mother. Sophie had missed most of this by spending as much time in England with her father as in America with their overprotective mother. Now that Cassie and Parker were adults, one wanted to experience everything life had to offer while the other wanted to just hide away from it. It had been a miracle that the two had convinced their mother to let them move in with Sophie, but she was glad they were finally being given the chance to grow.

Parker smiled briefly at Cassie's answer and handed Sophie the dress so she could take off her t-shirt and jeans. Sophie hoped that Parker would hurry. They were already dangerously close to being late, and Sophie wasn't even dressed yet.

“Will there be snacks there?” Parker asked, her voice slightly muffled by her t-shirt.

“There's always snacks,”Cassie answered, taking the shirt Parker held out to her.

“And booze, I imagine,” Sophie agreed.

“I don't think I'll drink much of that,” Cassie said. “It goes right to my head.”

Remembering Cassie's wobbly legs and off-pitched singing the last time she had a few drinks, Sophie thought this was an excellent idea.

“I like the ones with the bubbles.” Parker slipped off her jeans and took her black dress from Sophie. “They tickle.”

Sophie was partial to champagne herself. With a smile, she said, “Me, too.”

Now that her hands were free, she could go into her own room and dress. As she left Parker's, she could hear her sisters talking and laughing quietly. She was less than ten years older than they were, but sometimes she felt more like their mother than their sister.

As Sophie snapped on the light and went to retrieve her dress from the closet, her mind went to her current writing problem. Now that she'd killed off Rebecca Storm, she was suddenly blocked as bad as she'd ever been in her life. Killing her main character had seemed like a good idea at the time, and she'd thought she knew who she'd replaced Storm with. Unfortunately, when faced with a blank page, all of her ideas had fallen apart. Now, she was left with a blinking cursor and an empty head.

Sophie frowned and forced the thoughts away, determined to enjoy her party. There would be time to worry later. For now, there was a sexy red dress with her name on it and a room full of people who adored her. That's what was important.

XXX

Eliot Spencer was frowning as he stepped into the expensively but tastefully decorated high rise apartment. It was full of understated luxury, but, more importantly, it also contained the body of a very dead young woman.

As he entered, Baird and Hardison joined him. They were a study in opposites, one a blond, blue eyed woman, and the other an athletic, attractive African American man. Both of them were tall and long limbed, and sometimes when they walked on either side of him, Eliot felt like he was between bookends.

The three of them quietly crossed the room to join the others around the body. There were a couple of uniforms and a photographer.

“Jake here yet?” he asked.

“Somewhere.” Baird waved her hand vaguely.

“He's been here awhile,” Hardison added.

Eliot nodded and bent to study the victim. She was laid out on a large, black coffee table. Her clothes had been stripped from her and replaced with red rose petals. Demure pieces of skin showed through them, exposing bits of shoulders and her stomach. Completing the picture were two large sunflowers that covered her eyes and obscured most of her face. He wondered who she was and how she'd ended up like this, brutally murdered and then staged in a gruesome parody of romance.

“Vic's Alison Tisdale,” Hardison said before Eliot could even ask him. His dark eyes swept impersonally over the body and, as usual, Eliot couldn't tell what he was thinking.

Eliot looked at her. “Alison Tisdale?”

“Yeah. Mean something to you?”

It sounded familiar, but he couldn't place where he'd heard the name before. Since her place screamed money, it could have been in the paper. “I don't know. Maybe.”

Hardison accepted this with a nod and continued, “Twenty-four. Student at NYU. Social work program.”

“She was a student?” Eliot asked incredulously. “When Jake was a student, he shared a room that was probably smaller than this girl's bathroom with two other guys.”

Baird smirked. “I'm guessing she didn't pay for it.”

“Her daddy's loaded,” Hardison added.

Eliot glanced back down at the body briefly. “Who found her?”

“The neighbors called to complain about the music. When she didn't answer, they had the super check on her. He found her like this.”

Once more, Eliot looked down at the body, this time studying her carefully, ticking off details out loud. “No sign of a struggle. She knew him, whoever he was.”

“Yeah, he even bought her flowers,” Baird commented drily.

“Romantic.”

Eliot looked up at the new voice to see his brother enter the room. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Do you know how she died yet?”

“Yeah, sure.” He took out one of his instruments and carefully lifted a couple of petals. “Two shots to the chest. Small caliber.”

The bullet holes were fresh, still slowly dripping coagulating blood, and they harshly marred the victim's pale skin.

Eliot nodded, his eyes still on the dead girl. After a few seconds, he realized that he'd seen this scene, or something like it, before.

“Something?” Hardison asked.

“This just...it looks familiar.”

“Familiar how?”

“Well, look at how he left her covered. Mostly.”

“No sexual assault,” Baird offered.

“Right. He did all this,” he indicated the flowers, “but it wasn't about sex.”

“Are you sure about that?” Hardison sounded doubtful.

It suddenly clicked in where Eliot had seen all this before. “I think I am.”

“Because of the way she's laid out.”

“Yeah, and because I've definitely seen this before. Come on, guys, think. Think.”

Hardison shook his head. “You lost me.”

“Me, too,” Baird admitted.

Eliot looked at his brother in exasperation, but Jake was smiling and nodding. “Of course.”

“Of course, what?”

“Roses on her body? Sunflowers on her eyes?” He just got blank stares from Baird and Hardison. Jake sounded disgusted as he said, “Don't you guys read?”

XXX

“The party's going well, don't you think?”

Sophie was standing at the bar with a drink in her hand watching her guests mingling. She was having a brief respite from signing autographs and posing for pictures, and she was enjoying the sight of people interacting who might otherwise never meet.

At the voice, she turned to see her ex-husband, also her publisher, standing beside her, beaming as if this were his party instead of hers. Sophie couldn't help but smile at how happy he looked. Normally Flynn was a bit shy and reclusive, but now his eyes were shining, and his cheeks were pink with pleasure.

“Quite well,” she agreed affectionately. 

“I think there's even More people here than the last time.”

Sophie's eyes left his face to scan the room. “You might be right.”

“Why are you sitting over here all by yourself? You usually love these things.” The music was loud, but she thought she heard concern in his voice.

Quickly, her gaze went back to his face. “I'm taking a break. My wrist is starting to hurt.”

“Are you okay? I heard you haven't been writing.”

She drew back from him. “Who told you that?”

“It's just...”

“It was Cassie, wasn't it?” Sophie made a note to have a talk with Cassie about privacy.

“Are you blocked? Maybe you shouldn't have killed off Rebecca.”

Sophie sighed and looked into her drink. “I was so tired of Rebecca. I need a new character. A lawyer or a medical examiner. Maybe a cop or a stay at home mom who gets roped into something that shows her true talents.”

“I thought you had an idea.”

She frowned into her glass. “I did.”

“Sophie, you're deadline is approaching.”

“I know that.” She knocked back her drink and placed the glass on the bar. “Do we have to talk about that now? Let's just enjoy the party. You can nag me tomorrow.”

He studied her face before nodding reluctantly. “Okay, but I'm worried about you.”

Sophie patted his arm. “You always worry. That's why we're not married anymore.”

“I thought it was because we drove each other crazy.”

She laughed. “That, too.”

He grinned at her warmly, and she was glad they'd remained friends. He was one of the few real friends she had, and it would have hurt to lose him. Marriage had been a mistake, and it had almost been a costly one.

“Have you seen my sisters?” she asked him, leaning in to be heard more clearly.

“Cassie's dancing with anyone who asks her, but Parker's over there.”

Her eyes followed his finger to see her sister sitting in a fancy, overstuffed chair with a book in her hands. She seemed to be ignoring everyone around her.

“What's she doing?” Flynn continued.

“She doesn't want anyone to ask her to dance because she hates it.”

“I'm surprised she came.”

“I shouldn't have made her. I think I'll go tell her she can go home.”

Parker liked gymnastics, books, and animals. She did not like people.

“I'll talk to you later.” Sophie left him to make her way through the crowd.

As she approached, Cassie detached herself from the man she'd been dancing with and settled on the arm of Parker's chair. Even though Sophie couldn't hear what Cassie was saying, she could tell Cassie was chattering happily about her evening. 

“Sophie,” Cassie said in delight, jumping up when she caught sight of her.

“Are you enjoying the party?”

“It's great. I've danced twelve times.”

“With anyone in particular or are you working the crowd?”

Cassie smiled broadly. “All different. There are lots of people to dance with.”

“I'm glad you're having fun.”

Parker shifted in her chair and scowled, putting down her book. “This party's stupid.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“Can I?”

“You want to go home?” Cassie asked incredulously.

“It's just loud music and dancing. Boring.” Parker did all of her dancing in the air.

“That's what's so fun,” Cassie told her.

Parker blew air out of her lips in a rude, disbelieving noise.

“Yes, Parker, you can go home,” Sophie said. “I'll have the car brought around. I'm sorry I dragged you here.”

“It wasn't all bad. The snacks are good. I talked to Flynn. Everyone's so happy. They don't know you killed off Rebecca, do they?”

“Not yet. I hope you didn't tell them.”

“Spoilers, sweetie.”

“That's ri...” She noticed Cassie was studying something over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“He's a little rough but kind of cute.”

“Who is?”

She gestured, so Sophie turned to see a man striding towards her. The crowd parted in front of him, leaving his path free.

Sophie studied him curiously. He didn't fit in with those who'd come to hear about her new book. His suit was slightly rumpled and, while not cheap, not something you'd expect at this kind of party. He was a bit short for a man, but broad, with muscular arms. Long but neatly tied up hair framed a handsome face that was boyishly round. That was the only boyish thing about it. His jaw was stubbled, and there was a hardness to his features.

As he got close enough to be heard, he looked her up and down. He didn't seem impressed with what he saw.

“Sophie Devereaux?” His voice was gruff.

“Yes.”

“Detective Eliot Spencer, NYPD.” He flashed her his badge. “I need to ask you some questions about a murder.”

“A murder?” she asked, stunned.

“Yes, ma'am.” There was a hint of something southern in the way he spoke. “You'll need to come with me.”

“Okay. I'll just get my coat and tell Flynn I'm leaving.”

He nodded, his eyes stern and serious. As Sophie turned away, she found she was more intrigued than concerned. She'd never seen a real interview, and she hoped this one would spark something. Maybe it would be enough to get her writing again.

XXX

As Sophie sat in the interview room waiting for Detective Spencer, she curiously studied her surroundings. The room was much as she'd expected—dingy walls, uncomfortable chairs, slightly unpleasant smell. She absorbed it all, locking away details to use later.

The door opened, and Detective Spencer walked in. His presence filled the room, and she immediately forgot everything else.

“Miss Devereaux,” he said slowly, “I hope you find the accommodations comfortable.”

She gave him her best smile, the one that was usually guaranteed to turn any situation in her favour. He didn't even seem to notice. 

“Quite comfortable, Detective. All that's missing is fresh cut flowers on the table.”

His scowl deepened as he sat across from her and flopped a folder down on the table's scarred surface. “Are you trying to be funny, Miss Devereaux?”

“Would you smile if I were?”

“There's nothing funny about murder.”

She straightened. “You mentioned a murder earlier. What murder?”

“Where were you tonight?”

Sophie arched an eyebrow at him. “If you don't known that, then we have a bigger problem than you realize. After all, you came to get me.”

He blinked, but the rest of his face remained very still. He stared at her with shuttered blue eyes until she gave in and added, “The party.”

“Before that.”

“Before that, I was home getting dressed.” She let just the hint of a suggestion into her tone and a hint of a smile come to her face.

“Listen. It's been a long night. I'm too tired to deal with any bullshit. Can you just answer my questions?”

She studied his face. He did look tired, and she felt sudden sympathy for him.

“I was home getting ready for the party with my sisters.”

Spencer nodded and flipped open the folder. He took out a picture and placed it in front of Sophie. The picture was of a girl—young, blond, pretty. Sophie glanced at it and then back up at the detective.

“Have you seen her before? Maybe she came to a book signing or served you your morning coffee.”

She shook her head. “She doesn't look familiar. Should I know her?”

“Alison Tisdale, the murder victim.”

“Oh.” Sophie looked at the picture more carefully. “If I've seen her before, I don't remember.”

“And him?” Spencer put another photograph beside the first. “Look familiar?”

This one was a man, older than the girl and balding. “Who is he?”

“Marvin Fisk. Small claims lawyer. Also dead.”

Sophie studied his face before glancing up to meet the detective's gaze. “What has this got to do with me?”

“Well, this is the interesting part. Fisk was found murdered in his office two weeks ago, but I didn't put it all together until tonight. Not until Alison.”

He showed her another picture of Alison, but this time she was dead. Rose petals were scattered over her body, and sunflowers were placed over her eyes.

In surprise, Sophie said, “Flowers for your grave.”

“Yeah,” Detective Spencer agreed, “and here's how we found Fisk.”

Again, Sophie recognized the scene as one that had come from her own head. “Hell Hath no Fury.”

“Exactly.”

“You read Hell Hath no Fury?”

Spencer's brow creased. “What?”

“Detective Spencer, no one read Hell Hath no Fury.” She couldn't hide her amusement. “The sales were abysmal.”

His scowl deepened. “That's not the point. The point is...”

“You read my books,” she teased.

“No. The point is, Miss Devereaux, people are turning up dead. Dead. And the killer's using your work as a how to manual. You're sure you haven't heard of either of our victims?”

Sophie's amusement drained away, and her eyes were drawn to Alison Tisdale's smiling face once more. “I don't remember them.”

“Okay.” He sounded as if his hold on his patience was tenuous at best.

“What's next?” she asked when he didn't continue. “Did you want to look at my fan mail?”

His answer was to lean back in his chair and cross his arms.

“It all points to an obsessed fan, right?” She filled in the dead air. “You'll want to read my fan mail to see if you can figure out who it is.”

“Do you have objections to us reading your mail?”

“No. Of course not. As you said, people are dead.”

Dead because of her. Because of what she'd written. Though she kept traces of it from her face, that bothered her.

Detective Spencer studied her face, his blue eyes narrowing. She wondered what he was thinking. 

“Are we done here, Detective?” she asked.

Slowly, he nodded. “I'll send someone by to get your mail tomorrow morning.”

“Not too early, I hope. I need my beauty sleep.”

He snorted in amusement, but he still didn't smile. Sophie wasn't sure whether to be insulted or not.

“Now, I'd like a ride home, if you don't mind.” She stood up, wiping invisible wrinkles from the sexy red dress she'd bought especially for the night.

“A ride home?”

“Yes. You kidnapped me from my party, and now it is long past the hour I'd consider taking a taxi by myself. You've taken me from my driver, so it is your responsibility to get me home safely.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. “All right. I'll get a uniform to drive you home.”

She had been hoping he'd offer to take her, but she accepted his answer with grace. It was late, and she was starting to wilt.

“So be it. Good night, Detective Spencer.”

“Yeah,” he grunted, still in his chair.

On her way by him, Sophie reached out and placed her hand briefly on his shoulder. She felt him stiffen beneath her fingers at the unexpected touch. “Get some sleep, Detective.”

She didn't wait to see if he would answer.

XXX

Sophie was exhausted when she walked into her apartment. She'd expected it to be dark and quiet, but her sisters looked up from a game of Parcheesi when she came in. They'd set it up on the coffee table and were sitting on the floor.

“Sophie,” Parker said, “you're back!”

“Yes, I am,” she agreed tiredly. “I'm surprised to see you both still up.”

“We couldn't go to bed when you could be in the slammer.”

“In the slammer?”

“Parker's been trying to guess why they took you in since you left the party. I think she was convinced they'd locked you up and threw away the key.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“So, you're not in trouble?” Parker asked as Cassie started packing up their game.

“Hardly. They wanted my help on a case.” 

She put her purse on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch. Parker got up and sat beside her, curiosity written all over her face.

“With a case? Like CSI?”

“Not quite like CSI.”

Cassie looked up from putting the pieces in the box. “Why did they want your help?”

“Because I have a great investigative mind.”

She laughed.

“Okay, not just that. Someone's been committing murders using scenes from my books.”

“What? That's awful.” She left the game and sat on Sophie's other side. “Are you okay?”

“Did you see the bodies?” Parker added, eyes wide.

“I saw pictures of them.”

“How many?”

“Two so far.” Then she turned to Cassie and admitted, “It's nauseated me.”

Cassie stared at her hard, her eyes serious. Despite normally being perky and cheerful, she was an old soul, and pain and loss had changed her. Most of the time, Sophie forgot about Cassie's scars until her sister suddenly became very serious.

Sophie smiled and patted Cassie's hand. “What I don't get is why he chose the books he chose.”

“The murderer?” Parker asked.

“He used two of my least popular works. It doesn't make sense. I don't understand.”

“He's crazy.” Parker had a knack for breaking everything down to its simplest form.

“Maybe you're right.” She shook her head. “I keep thinking of those pictures. It's one thing to write about death, but to see them there, the way I wrote it...”

“How about that detective?” Cassie interrupted her.

Sophie appreciated what she was trying to do. “Detective Spencer?”

“I liked the way he looked.” She settled in closer and put her head on Sophie's shoulder. “He had a kind face.”

“And you noticed this when he was dragging me out into the night.”

“He was grouchy,” Parker commented.

“Yes, he was very grouchy,” Sophie agreed, “but I liked him.”

“Did he yell at you?”

“No, but he used a bit of profanity.”

“Oh! What did he say?”

“I still think he looked kind,” Cassie repeated.

“Hey, I want to know what he said.”

“Let it go, Parker,” Sophie told her, but her spirits were starting to lift.

“Hmph.” She violently shifted until her shoulder roughly collided with Sophie's.

“Do you think they'll find the killer?” Cassie said quietly.

“I hope so.” Sophie hated to think of him out there, murdering people in her name. The writer in her, the one who had researched this kind of thing until investigative knowledge was coming out of her ears, knew that if person was going to become a killer, anything could set them off, and it if wasn't her books it would be something else. The rest of her just couldn't help but wonder if it was her words that had driven the killer to madness and if he'd never have killed without them. She felt responsible for Alison Tisdale and Marvin Fisk, and she couldn't shake the guilt.

“I'm sure Detective Spencer is good at his job, right?”

“Yes. Very good.” She sighed. “I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. Maybe we should go to bed.”

“Don't you want to know about the party?” Parker asked.

“Why? Did something happen?”

“No. We came home.”

Cassie added, “Flynn told everyone you went to talk to the detective about your next book. Fact checking or something.”

“I'll have to remember to thank him later.”

“Will he be sleeping over?” Parker asked.

Sophie couldn't tell from Parker's tone what she thought of the idea. “Of course not. We don't do that anymore.”

“Do you think they'll let you know when the killer's caught?” Cassie sat up.

“I'm not sure.” With a simple call, she could probably make sure that they would. “I hope so.”

Her runaway imagination and guilt needed the closure.

XXX

Eliot didn't know whether to attribute his headache to Alison Tisdale's murder or to his interview with Sophie Devereaux.

He grimaced as he loosened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt. It wasn't that she was unpleasant, and, if he'd met her in a bar, he probably would have appreciated the warmth of her smile and the way her red dress clung to her curves.

But this had been a murder investigation, and her charming good humour had irritated him. She seemed to take the deaths of Alison Tisdale and Marvin Fisk too lightly, even daring to tease him while he was trying to ask her questions. She thought she was being cute, but really she'd been annoying. Well, mostly annoying and maybe a little bit cute. 

She'd touched him. Eliot could still feel the warmth and weight of her hand on his shoulder. He'd tried to dismiss it, just as he'd tried to dismiss the way she'd looked in that clingy dress, but his mind wasn't cooperating.

With a sigh, he reached up and tugged his hair loose. He ran his hand through it, enjoying the feeling of freedom. He was so tired that when his phone rang, he was tempted to let it go to voice mail. Of course, he didn't. Taking the phone out of his pocket, he glanced and it and saw the caller was Jake. The corner of his mouth lifted as he answered.

“Yeah?”

“Did you meet her?”

“Couldn't this have waited until morning?”

“Are you kidding? It's not every day you get to meet Sophie Devereaux.” 

The two of them had been passing her books back and forth for a long time. Jake had started, impressed with the way she could weave a mystery. He'd convinced Eliot to try them, though Eliot rarely read women writers, and he'd been impressed with her tough as nails women characters and their abilities to kick ass and take names.

“Good thing.”

“Why?” He sounded disappointed. “Was she horrible?”

“Not really. Irritating.”

“What did she do?”

“She smiled.”

There was a pause before Jake said, “She really is horrible.”

“Funny.”

“Did you get her autograph?”

“It didn't come up.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Yes,” Eliot admitted. “Good looking. Rich. Too damn cheerful.”

“I see she made a good impression,” Jake remarked dryly.

Again, Eliot felt her fingers on his shoulder and imagined he could smell her light perfume.

“Was she what you expected?” Jake asked.

Eliot thought about that. He'd never really considered meeting her, so he didn't know if he'd had any preconceived notions. He'd known she'd be pretty from the dust jacket—though that simple picture was nowhere near as compelling or as beautiful as the real thing. Plus, she never smiled on the jackets, which gave her a serious air that she definitely lacked in real life. Other than that, it had been her latest character, the star of her last five books, Rebecca Storm, who had caught his imagination.

Rebecca was tall, thin, athletic, and blond—kind of like Baird—and nothing like the Sophie Devereaux he'd spent two hours with.

“She's just a woman.”

“I'm not going to get any more out of you tonight, am I?”

“I can't even think, and I've got to be up in six hours.”

“Okay. Okay. I'm going, but you're going to tell me all about her tomorrow.”

“Your fanboy's showing.”

He laughed. “Talk to you later.”

Despite feeling cranky enough to rip someone's head off, Eliot was smiling as he hung up. He made his way down the hall to his bedroom still thinking of Sophie Devereaux in her hot red dress. He could finally admit she wasn't really all that bad. Besides, he probably would never have to see her again. For some reason, instead of feeling relieved, he felt rather disappointed.

XXX

Sophie's dreams were plagued with images of Alison Tisdale. In them, the young woman was murdered over and over again, her face first pleading and then accusing as Sophie failed again and again to save her. Each time, Sophie woke with a start and looked at the clock to see almost no time had passed.

A little after seven, she gave up trying to sleep. Her eyes were gritty, and her brain felt mangled, but she thought she'd be able to fight that off with some strong coffee.

Tiredly, she blinked in the weak light coming in her window as she stumbled to her bathroom. The apartment was quiet around her as her sisters slept off their late night.

Sophie turned her shower on its highest setting and stood under the strong spray, hoping it would wash away some of the guilt she was feeling. She closed her eyes, leaning in to let the hot water pound her body.

She continued to think of Alison Tisdale and Marvin Fisk, and she couldn't get their faces out of her mind. There was no way she was going to forget that they'd died like characters in her books, and she wished there were something she could do to help find their killer. 

Suddenly, it came to her. She stilled, and the water flattened her hair to her head and dripped off the end of her nose. As the idea developed, she could feel herself growing lighter.

By the time the police came for her fan mail, Sophie was already dressed and ready to leave. She opened the door to two uniforms and a detective. He was young with Asian features and jet black, shaggy hair. His body was small and slim, and his eyes were slightly bored.

“Good morning,” he said, revealing the intriguing hint of an Australian accent. “I'm Detective Jones. We've come for your mail.”

Sophie smiled at him. “Good morning, Detective. Please come in. I was just going out, but I've bagged I tall up and placed it in my office. My sister, Cassandra, will help you with whatever you need,” she told him before calling, “Cassie, they're here!” 

Cassie appeared wearing a white and green striped sweater, cut off flowered jean shorts, and blue and green striped tights. The outfit made her look about twelve but, for her, it worked.

“Hi!” She grinned, her face lighting up. “Come with me.”

A cheeky smile came to Jones's face, and his boredom dropped away. He suddenly looked much younger and much less disciplined. Sophie had a brief flash of amusement as she slipped out the door. It was gone before she reached the elevator; she as already thinking ahead and looking forward to seeing Detective Spencer again.

XXX

Hardison and Baird were already at their desks when Eliot came in with a box of books in his arms. Baird was typing on her keyboard, and Hardison was playing with his phone, but they both looked up as he approached.

“What's that?” Hardison asked, putting his phone on his desk.

“Books,” Eliot said dryly before adding, “As many Sophie Devereaux books as I could find.”

“They yours?” There was a hint of a smile on the younger man's face.

“Mine and Jake's. Is there a problem?”

“No, man. No problem.” He shrugged but there was amusement in his eyes.

“Good,” Eliot dropped them on Baird's desk, “because I want you to read them—or at least skim them. Go over every murder scene. Someone's life could depend on it.”

Baird frowned. “There's a lot of books here.”

He gazed at her steadily. She didn't answer the challenge. Instead, she opted for reaching in and picking up one of the books.

“Listen, I know neither of you are readers, but think about it.” He took out two of the pictures he'd shown the author the night before. “Our first vic was a middle aged male lawyer. Our second was a young, female social worker. We can't find a connection, but it might be there.” He pointed at the box. “You want to take a chance that we'll miss something just because you don't want to read?”

“But there's so many books. You must own everything she ever wrote.” Hardison sighed, taking the book Baird was passing him.

“Suck it up,” she told him.

Eliot gave her a slight nod of appreciation. “Profiling indicates a fan with low intelligence, someone who thinks he has a personal relationship with the author.

“And he likes to read.” Hardison was flipping through the pages. 

“Yeah, and where he's going to strike next is somewhere in there, so pay attention.”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Spencer!” A voice called from across the room. Eliot turned to see Detective Jones and two uniforms. Their arms were full of clear boxes piled high with mail.

He left Baird and Hardison to the books and went to meet them. “That's a lot of mail.”

“Yup. Everything we could find. Her sister was a big help.” There was a slight smile on Jones's face that Eliot was very familiar with.

“Stay away from the sister.”

Jones just grinned wide, so Eliot shook his head. Jones was a good cop but he was still young enough to make stupid mistakes.

“Take the mail into briefing for me. I'll get to it in a minute.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks.”

As Jones walked away, Baird arrived. “We got the results back from the lab.”

“What did they say?”

“No DNA. No prints. Just like the last one. This guy is careful.”

“Did they find any connection?”

“None but her.” She waved at the captain's office.

Eliot glanced that way and was surprised to see Sophie Devereaux in there, chatting Captain Ford's head off. The captain was smiling at her, and his features were softer than Eliot was used to.

“What's she doing here?”

Baird shrugged. “Maybe she likes you.”

“More like she wants to torture me for taking her away from her party last night.”

“She sure doesn't fit in around here.”

Devereaux was wearing a simple black dress that came to mid-thigh. It hugged her curves, and the thin spaghetti straps accentuated her smooth, white shoulders. It made her look soft and sexy, and Eliot could feel the danger vibes coming off her in waves.

“No,” he agreed.

Ford came to the door and barked, “Spencer!”

“I'm not going to like this, am I?” he murmured to Baird. She gave him a sort of sideways smile that was equal parts amusement and sympathy.

As he approached the office, he tried not to scowl.

“Captain?” he asked, going in.

Devereaux was looking at him, delight lighting her eyes. It made him feel uncomfortable.

“Ms. Devereaux has offered to assist with the investigation,” Ford said.

Eliot couldn't tell what the captain's thoughts on this was. “She has?”

He studied her face, and she smiled slightly. Eliot's unease grew.

“It's the least I can do. After all, the killer is using my words.”

“Listen...” Eliot started, but Ford interrupted him.

“I think it's a great idea.”

“What?”

“She's right. No one knows her words like she does. She could be an asset.”

“But...Can I talk to you in private, sir?”

“'Fraid not. Sophie's a part of the team, for now. Make use of her.”

Devereaux's grin widened. Eliot sighed.

“Fine.”

“I'm so excited to be working with you, Detective,” she said, coming forward and placing her hand on his arm, touching him again. “What do we do first?”

“How do you feel about reading fan mail?”

XXX

Sophie sat in the stern, dim room across the table from Detective Spencer. He was quiet as he read, and he seemed to not even remember she was in the room.

He had such a serious face. Sophie glanced up from a letter from a male fan who wondered if she was 'as hot as Rebecca Storm' to study him. This close, she could see his eyes were blue, and he had lashes any woman would envy. Despite his gruff demeanor, she liked looking at him. In fact, she liked him.

He must have felt her gaze because, without looking up, he asked, “What?”

“Are you enjoying reading my mail?”

“What do you think?” His eyes flicked up to her face.

“Just think, all of these people think more of me than you do.”

“Most of them haven't met you.”

For some reason, he'd seemed to dislike her from the moment they'd met. As far as she could see, she'd done nothing to gain his animosity. She sat up straighter, placing her letter on the table and frowning slightly. “I'm not sure I understand why you have a problem with me.”

He finally looked at her, and his gaze was so direct, it almost made her flinch. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to help.”

He scowled. “I don't believe you. You don't care about Alison Tisdale. You want something else. Whatever it is, it better not get in the way of this investigation, famous author or no famous author.”

Sophie studied his face. It was obvious he'd already made up his mind about her, and nothing she could say would change it. Instead of trying to answer him, she asked, “May I call you Eliot?”

This startled the frown from his face. “What?”

“If we're going to be working together...”

“Just for this case.”

“...I'd like to call you Eliot.”

“People around here call me Spencer,” he told her.

“I like your name.”

“Do what you want.” He went back to the letter, but she kept watching him, wondering what made him tick. “Are you just going to stare at me?”

“You have amazingly expressive eyes, Detective.”

“And what are they saying right now?”

She couldn't help the soft laugh his words produced. “They're saying if I don't let you get back to my fan mail, you might just hit me over the head with one of those boxes.”

His eyes softened unexpectedly, which intrigued her. 

“Just read some letters, Devereaux. Please.”

“You said please.” She smiled. “How can I say no?”

“I have a feeling you always do exactly the opposite of what anyone tells you to.”

“You've been talking to Cassie.”

His smile was sudden, and it crinkled the corners of his eyes. “One of your sisters?”

“The one who worries about me.”

“Does she have a reason to worry?” His tone was light and curious.

“Sometimes. I once got drunk and flashed a tour bus. Cassie was mortified.”

His eyes dropped to her chest before quickly coming back up to her face. “Is that all?”

“And I have terrible taste in men.” He didn't ask for clarification, but she added, “My last five boyfriends were wankers.”

“Wankers?”

“Marcel stole $15 000; Clive slept with at least three of my friends; John wanted me to be a cash cow for him and his husband; Frankie gave away the ending to one of my books before it was released; and Todd broke two of my ribs.” She waved a hand at him to show it didn't matter, unsure why she'd told him this. A blush tinged her cheeks, and she picked her letter back up, even though it was obvious the creep wasn't a deranged killer.

“Not this one,” she said brightly, reaching in the container for another letter.

“This one either,” he replied, the gruff note back in his voice. For one minute, Sophie had enjoyed talking to him, and she'd ruined it by bringing Todd into the conversation.

“Maybe the next one.” She glanced at him. Spencer was digging in his own box for another letter.

“Maybe. You've got some pretty cracked fans.”

“There's also some sweet ones.”

“I haven't seen any.” After a pause, he added, “Christ.”

“What is it?” He handed it to her wordlessly, and she read the practically pornographic words, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “And then there are these.”

“Get many of those?”

“Enough.”

“Sick, but he's not our guy.”

“Probably not.”

She slid her thumb under the flap and ripped the top of the next envelope open. As she unfolded one of the two sheets of paper, she felt excitement tingle through her limbs.

“Detective Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

She turned to show him the hand drawing that perfectly matched both the the crime scene from Flowers for your Grave and the last picture taken of Alison Tisdale. “I think this might be what you're looking for.”

XXX

Sophie was excited when Spencer led her into the bullpen. She was curious to see where he worked and who he worked with. You could tell a lot about a person by his or her desk. 

Spencer's desk was neat. Everything was in its place, and it looked as if no work had ever been done there. The one piece of personalization was a small picture in a plain frame of two little boys. They were both serious looking, though one of them was smiling slightly, and they had the same face. As she studied it, she realized that one of them was Detective Spencer, but she couldn't tell which one.

“You're a twin!” she said in surprise.

“Yeah.”

“That's so interesting! When I was a little girl, I always wanted to be a twin. My sisters were so much younger that I wished for someone my own age to talk to.” She tapped the faces on the picture. “You were cute.”

“Still am.”

His humour surprised her, and it took a moment for her to react. When she did, she couldn't help the delighted smile she gave him.

“Who's this?” someone asked, and Sophie turned to see two people behind her. The one who had spoken was a young and lanky African American man. Beside him was a very tall woman, blond with kind eyes.

“Baird, Hardison, this is Sophie Devereaux. The captain has agreed to let her help on our case.”

“You're the writer?” Hardison asked. “I started Death by Chocolate this morning. Good stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“We found a letter from someone who might fit our profile in her fan mail. The letter's in the lab.”

“You had more success than we did,” Baird told him.

Sophie studied her curiously. She seemed like a woman who was comfortable in her own skin.

“What's our next move?” she asked.

“Now, we wait,” Spencer told her, pulling out his chair to sit down.

“Wait for what?”

“The lab to call.”

“Oh.”

“Have a seat,” Baird offered, indicating an uncomfortable looking chair in front of her desk.

“Can you think of anything that connects Flowers for your Grave with Hell Hath no Fury?” Spencer asked as she took the offered chair. 

Sophie thought about this. “Not off the top of my head. In one, it was an obsessive man's need for control. In the other, it was a woman with supernatural powers hurt beyond her ability to cope.”

“Spoilers!” Hardison said, looking up from his cell phone.

“Yeah, like you were planning on reading anything past this case,” Spencer scoffed.

“Is he always this abrasive?” Sophie turned to Baird.

“No. Sometimes he's worse.”

“Is this some kind of women's bonding thing?” Sophie could have sworn she saw amusement in Spencer's eyes.

“Nah, man. I'm with them.” Hardison pointed his thumb at Sophie, and she couldn't hold back a small laugh.

Even though Spencer seemed to have all of his attention on the conversation, he snatched up his phone before it was done its first ring.

“Spencer...Okay, thanks.” He hung up and said, “That was the lab. There were prints on the letter. It's being sent for testing.”

“Great. When will we find out who they belong to?” Sophie was ready to jump back out of her chair.

“Three to five days.”

“What?” She was stunned.

“That's pretty fast. It usually takes at least a week.”

“We can't wait three days.”

“There's a line. We're at the end.”

“But...”

“We're at the end of the line, Devereaux. That's how it is here in the real world.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, “but not today.”

She took out her cell phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling in a favour.”

There was no way she was going to wait three days. Anything could happen in three days. As if in answer to that thought, Jones came over, his face serious. Sophie stopped dialing; she had a feeling her call would have to wait.

“Spencer,” he said, “they found another one.”

XXX

As they walked into the pool room at the Mont Blanc building, Sophie felt equal parts excited, nervous, and apprehensive. It was her first real crime scene, and she wasn't sure how it would be to see how things she'd previously only imagined were in reality. 

The room looked completely innocent. It didn't reek of death. Empty chairs waited by small tables for people to come sit in them. An old discarded towel lay balled up in one of the corners. The most remarkable thing about the room was the amount of light. The outside wall was made of windows, and a skylight above the pool highlighted the water. A shaft of light glinted off the knife protruding from the back of the killer's latest victim.

Sophie winced as her eyes fell on the young woman who floated there face down. A yellow prom dress surrounded her like a cloud.

Detective Spencer stood beside Sophie, so close that she could feel the heat from his body and smell the light scent of his cologne. She wondered if he saw the scene as she did or whether his experienced eyes saw clues she couldn't pick up on her own.

As she studied the body, unable to look away, she noticed everything that was familiar about the scene.

“Death of a Prom Queen,” she said aloud.

“Yeah,” Detective Spencer agreed.

One of the officers milling around the pool caught sight of him and came over. The man ignored Sophie completely as he said, “Maintenance found her an hour ago. Kendra Pitney. She lived in the building.”

Spencer nodded, studying the scene. “Okay. If John's finished, get her out of the water. We'll let Jake have a look at her.” He turned to Sophie. “You stay here. I don't need you contaminating the crime scene.”

“But...” she protested wanting to get a closer look.

“Stay here, Devereaux.”

Sophie sighed but didn't reply, annoyed that he thought she'd to anything to compromise his investigation. She wasn't a five year old who couldn't keep her hands to herself. 

She watched as the body was fished out of the pool and laid in front of a man she hadn't noticed before. He was wearing a medical examiner's jacket and kneeling beside a blue kit. Sophie was surprised to discover he was the brother Detective Spencer had been talking about earlier. While they had incredibly similar faces, Spencer's brother was more clean cut. He lacked the stubble, his hair was neatly cut, and his face was slightly rounder. 

Since Spencer seemed to be busy, Sophie decided to risk walking over to his brother, who had started examining the victim's hand.

“Hi,” she said softly, not wanting her voice to carry. “I'm Sophie Devereaux. I'm working with Detective Spencer on this case.”

He looked up, his eyes holding the same intensity as his brother's. “Sophie Devereaux the writer?”

She smiled. “Guilty as charged.”

“I read your books.”

“Do you like them?”

He returned her smile. She noticed he had a kinder face than Spencer. “Very much.”

“Can I watch what you're doing? I promise not to interfere.”

“Sure. Right now, I'm checking under her fingernails.”

Sophie glanced at the victim and felt her stomach get heavy. Ignoring the feeling, she knelt so she could see better.

“I'm Jake Spencer, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. I must say, you are the more pleasant of the Spencer brothers.”

He laughed. “I've heard that. You say you're helping Eliot on this?”

“Yes. Captain Ford thought I”d offer a unique perspective because I wrote the murder scenes.”

“Makes sense.”

“Dammit, Devereaux, what are you doing?” Detective Spencer's voice sounded beside her. “What part of stay out of the crime scene didn't you understand?”

She quickly got to her feet. “I didn't touch anything.”

He ignored her and addressed his brother. “COD?”

“I can't be positive without a full exam,” Jake told him, “But this wasn't a stabbing.”

“Lack of blood around the wound,” Sophie commented without thinking.

Spencer threw her a quelling look.

“Right,” Jake agreed, “and she didn't drown. No foam around the mouth. She was killed somewhere else and planted here.”

Sophie once more studied the body, this time clinically. She noted things she had thoroughly researched, intrigued to see how they displayed themselves in real life.

“You were supposed to be over there,” Spencer spoke to her again. He was near enough that his breath rustled her hair. “When I say stay here, I mean stay here. If you're gonna be with me, you have to listen.”

“I'm not a child,” she voiced her internal protest from earlier. “I know to respect a crime scene.”

“I don't want to have to worry about what you're doing while I'm supposed to be doing my job.”

“I won't get in the way.” She glanced once more at Jake, who had resumed working on the body. “Did you realize the dress is the wrong color?”

“What?”

“The dress. In the book, it was blue.”

He waved this away. “You're hung up on the dress color?”

“It just seems strange.”

“What about this case isn't?”

Sophie had to concede the point, but the detail still bothered her. 

“I don't think there's anything else we can do,” he continued. “I'm leaving Baird and Hardison here to question people in the building. You should go home. We're just going to be waiting for Jake's report on how she died. Unless there's another murder, most of what's next is waiting—waiting for Jake, waiting for the prints, waiting to hear from Baird and Hardison.”

Sophie remembered she hadn't called in her favour. She glanced at her watch and saw it was after five; she 'd have to wait until morning. 

“Are you done with my fan mail?”

“We'll probably keep it a couple of days in case this isn't our guy. That okay?”

“Of course. Will you call me if anything further happens?”

“Yes.” He didn't look happy about it, but she trusted him not to lie to her.

“All right.” She once more glanced at the crime scene. “Death isn't pretty, is it?”

“No, it's not. Come on, Devereaux. I'll give you a ride home.”

XXX

Later that night, Eliot sat on his brother's couch sipping a beer. He'd limited himself to two because he was on call for the Devereaux case and he had to be up early for work the next morning, but those two were going down easy and allowing him to release some of the stress of the day. Jake was on the couch beside him, and they were waiting for one of their favorite Bond movies to start.

“I like her,” Jake said, breaking the quiet. 

He glanced at him. “Who?”

“Sophie Devereaux.”

Eliot smirked. “You were probably looking at her legs.”

He let the image of her in that sexy black dress go through his mind. She'd been a titillating distraction, and she smelled faintly of cinnamon. In truth, for the most part, she hadn't been too bad. He was still annoyed that she'd wiggled her way into the case, that she was cheerful, and that she seemed incapable of following simple directions. Even so, Eliot was afraid he was starting to like her, too. One thing he wouldn't waver on, though, was that a murder investigation was no place for a wealthy woman who wrote stories for a living.

“She did have fine legs,” Jake admitted, adding, “You weren't very nice to her.”

“Nothing says I have to be nice.”

“And, if you're mean to her, she might give up and get her nose out of your investigation.”

“That, too,” he admitted. His brother knew him too well.

“Maybe she'll be some real help.”

“I doubt it.”

XXX

Sophie was sitting in her office with her books spread out around her. Her newest ones, the ones starring Rebecca Storm, were on her left, and her earlier works were on her right. Death of a Prom Queen was in her lap, and she was thumbing through Flowers for your Grave.

“Sophie?”

She looked up to see Parker in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Dinner is going to be here in a few minutes.”

“And what are we having tonight?” None of them really cooked, though they could make a few of the basics when pressed, so they usually ordered in.

“Marco's. I got you spaghetti.”

“Sounds good. I'll be out in a minute.”

“What are you doing?” Parker came in, eyeing the books curiously. “Are you counting your books?”

“Not exactly. There's something bugging me about this case.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh! What is it?”

“The woman that was murdered today had on a yellow dress.”

“Yellow dress?” she asked, sitting in the nearest chair.

“They took the scene from Death of a Prom Queen.”

“But Debbie was wearing a blue dress.” Parker read all of her books.

“Exactly. Now, I'm looking up the flowers in Flowers for your Grave.”

“Sunflowers and hybrid tea roses.”

“Yes! That's what I thought.”

“Does that mean something?”

“They're the wrong kind.”

“The wrong kind?”

“The rose petals the killer used were grandiflora.”

Parker frowned and slid from her chair onto the floor so she could pick up Hell Hath no Fury. “What about this one?”

“I haven't had time to check to see if he's made a mistake.”

“I wouldn't have made a mistake.”

Sophie eyed her sister, who was flipping through the book. “No, you wouldn't have.”

She wondered if she were reading more into the killer's errors than there really was. She wanted to contribute something to the case and impress the resolutely unimpressible Detective Spencer, so maybe she was grasping at straws. Either way, the discrepancies bothered her.

“Do you think he'll kill anyone else?”

“I hope not.”

“You're worried that he will.”

“I don't want anyone else to die because of me.”

“Sophie, he's crazy. It's not your fault. I've read your books, and I didn't kill anybody.”

“There's still time.” Sophie smiled at her tiredly.

Parker made a face at her, and Sophie's mood lifted.

“Was he mean to you today?” Parker asked suddenly.

“Detective Spencer?”

She nodded.

Sophie thought about her day. Spencer had been a little short with her but not actually mean. She knew having her with him annoyed him, but he'd still allowed her to follow him like a puppy. He could have pawned her off on Baird and Hardison instead. She liked the two of them, but there was something about Spencer that made her want to delve inside his brain.

“Not much.”

“Good.”

Sophie pushed herself up off of the floor and stretched. “I can look at these later. Let's go get something to eat.”

“Will you write today?”

She thought guiltily about her blank Word document. “Maybe.”

“You're not yourself when you're not writing.”

Offering Parker her hand, she asked seriously, “Who am I?”

Parker let her pull her up. “Not really someone else.”

Sophie winked at her in amusement. Parker often was very literal, and, occasionally, Sophie gave in to the impulse to tease her. Parker rolled her eyes and bumped Sophie's body gently with her own. Together, they left the room—and the mystery, at least for a few hours—behind.

XXX

Sophie entered the bullpen cheerfully the next morning. Her call to the mayor had been successful, and she was excited to tell Spencer they'd have their prints by noon.

Because the detective had given her outfit scornful looks the day before, this morning she was wearing designer jeans and a simple silk shirt. They looked good on her and were practical, so she hoped he would approve.

Detective Spencer scowled when he saw her, but both Baird and Hardison smiled. She was beginning to think scowling was Spencer's way of saying hello.

“Good morning, Eliot,” she said cheerfully, causing Hardison to smirk.

“Devereaux,” he acknowledged, ignoring the use of his first name. “I didn't expect to see you.”

“I wanted to be here when the prints came in.”

“They won't be in for awhile yet.”

She shook her head. “They'll be in this morning.”

“This morning?”

“I called in my favour.”

“I thought I told you we had to wait our turn.”

She shrugged. “I don't like to wait. Besides, you already know how well I follow orders.”

Hardison and Baird exchanged an amused look but remained silent until Sophie asked them, “Did you learn anything from the canvas?”

Baird shook her head. “Nothing we didn't already know.”

“No idea where she was murdered?”

“Not yet.”

“So it all comes down to the prints?”

“Looks like it,” Hardison agreed.

“That's a lot riding on one little picture. What if it's a dead end?”

“Then we find another thread,” Baird told her.

“We go back to my murder scenes?”

“Yup.”

Detective Spencer had been watching this conversation impassively. He was slumped lazily in his chair, his eyes resting on her face. Sophie could feel him watching her, but she had no idea what he was thinking. All signs of soft boredom were gone as his phone rang shrilly. He answered with an intensity that Sophie could almost feel.

“Spencer...Okay, thanks.” When he hung up, he spoke to Baird and Hardison, somehow excluding Sophie. “That was our call. Kyle Cabbot. Brooklyn. Let's go.”

XXX

She had no business smelling like cookies, Eliot thought as he pulled up outside Cabbot's apartment building. The faint scents of vanilla and cinnamon surrounded him.

Devereaux was in the other side of the car, peering out the window. She was looking at the building as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

“This is it?”

“Yup.”

She turned to look at him and caught him staring at her. “What?”

He couldn't help himself. “Why do you smell like cookies?”

Her face had been uncharacteristically serious but broke into a smile at his words. “Not my normal scent, I assure you.”

This he believed. Though she smelled delicious, Sophie Devereaux was not the kind of woman you'd expect to smell of something as domestic as cookies. On the night he'd brought her in for questioning, she'd smelled like some kind of exotic flower. That scent had seemed much more fitting.

“Parker bought me this vanilla shampoo for my birthday last week. She loves everything sweet. I didn't want to hurt her feelings by not using it. It doesn't bother you, does it?”

“No, of course not.” It just made him wonder if she tasted as good as she smelled, which definitely was not the head space he wanted to be in at the moment.

Several cars pulled up around them, blaring loud sirens and flashing bright lights. Excitement drove the fun from Devereaux's face, and she reached for her door handle.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“With you.”

“I don't think so.”

Eliot couldn't even being to imagine the bad things that would happen if she got hurt in there.

“I'm paying the liability insurance,” she argued.

As if money were the thing he was most worried about. There'd be a shit storm. There would be no more Sophie Devereaux books. Worst of all, she'd be dead. Besides that, if she got in the way, there could be a mistrial or worse. Nothing good could come out of her following him into the building.

“You don't have a vest.”

“I'll stay behind everyone.”

“No,” he said with finality.

He saw the need to continue protesting go through her eyes, and he waited in exasperation for her next words. He was surprised when the light went out, and she huffed and let herself fall against the seat. 

“Fine.”

Eliot studied her for signs of rebellion. When he saw none, he got out to meet the officers who would be going in with him. He quickly checked his vest and drew his gun.

Eliot nodded to Baird and Hardison as they joined him. Trailed by their backup, they headed into the building and made their way to the third floor.

When they reached Cabbot's apartment, Eliot pounded on the door as his team spread out behind him. “Kyle, Cabbot, NYPD. Open up.”

There was no sound on the other side.

“Open the door. If you don't, I will use force to open it. Do you understand?”

When there was still no answer, he glanced at Baird and Hardison. They both nodded. Eliot stepped back and kicked the door hard. It flew open, banging against something on the other side. 

They swarmed into the small apartment. Eliot glanced around with his gun raised, noting the room was both neat and empty.

“Kyle Cabbot, NYPD. Show yourself,” Hardison called as the search spread out.

Because the apartment was small, it was only seconds before voices started calling, “Clear.”

When it was apparent their suspect wasn't there, Eliot holstered his gun. Some newspaper clippings scattered messily on the coffee table, out of place in the neat room, caught his eye. He moved forward and saw they were about Alison Tisdale's death. Among the clippings was one of Devereaux's books. It was open, with horrific pictures drawn in crayon inside. More of the hand drawn pictures were in amongst the clippings, and one closely matched the picture that had led them there.

Nearby, a well mounted bookshelf held a complete collection of Sophie Devereaux's works—everything Jake and Eliot owned plus one they'd never been able to find. There were ragged sticky notes along their tops and, curious, Eliot moved forward and took one down.

He flipped it open to see the book's pages were covered with more of those creepy pictures.

Hardison came up behind him and said, “You should ask him to join the book club.”

“Shut up, Hardison,” Eliot said without heat, snapping the book closed.

“Spencer, in here,” Baird's voice called from another room.

He put the book on the coffee table next to an article featuring Devereaux's overly serious face—the face Eliot was beginning to think of as her author face since the expression was so far from her real one—and went deeper into the apartment. He found a cluster of officers standing in Kyle's bedroom in front of what could only be called a shrine.

There were pictures of Devereaux--both with her author face and with her natural expression--in various outfits and situations, articles about both her and her books, second copies or covers of her books, more of Kyle's strange drawings, and even Devereaux's autograph. It made Eliot's skin crawl, especially since he knew the object of Cabbot's obsession, and it was not unlikely that eventually his violent tendencies would turn to her.

“Oh,” a soft voice said behind him, and he turned to see Devereaux staring at the shrine. Her eyes were wide, and her face was pale.

“Devereaux! What are you doing in here? I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

“I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself.” She paused, and her eyes briefly went back to the shrine. “That's rather creepy, isn't it?”

Eliot glared at her, trying to find the right words to chastise her with.

“Spencer, look,” Baird said, catching his attention.

She was holding up a pale pink shirt containing two rips with blood around their edges. Rips that he was willing to bet matched up to the holes in Alison Tisdale's body.

Ignoring Devereaux, he joined Baird and saw a small gun. “And I think this is the murder weapon.” Any other conversation was interrupted by a loud thump. “What the hell?”

His gun came back out, and he walked across the apartment, following the noise as the thumping continued. It was coming from a small door off the kitchen that they'd missed. Eliot stood to the side, out of the line of fire, with Hardison behind him.

Devereaux came into the kitchen, and Eliot stared at her until she moved behind Hardison, out of the danger zone.

He opened the door quickly, revealing a small coat closet. A young man was huddled inside, banging against the wall and muttering to himself. 

“Show me your hands!” Eliot demanded, but there was no reaction except the mumbling got louder.

“Get out of my house. Get out of my house. Get out of my house.”

“Show me your hands, dammit.”

Voices exploded through the room, repeating, “Show me your hands...put your hands up...”

Cabbot raised his opened hands but had no other reaction. He kept pounding himself against the wall. Two members of Eliot's team had to reach in and grab him, hauling him out and reading him his Rights. He was so non-functional Eliot couldn't even be sure Cabbot understood them.

He holstered his gun, glancing at Devereaux. There was pity and compassion on her face, but she didn't say anything. When she met his eyes, she quickly turned away, as if putting up a wall. Eliot was intrigued in spite of himself. He was starting to think she wasn't the shallow, flighty woman she appeared to be. For a moment, he was tempted to go to her and find out what she was thinking, but he pushed the impulse away. Devereaux wasn't what mattered. What mattered was getting Kyle Cabbot into booking and wrapping up the case.

XXX

Sophie studied Kyle through the two way glass. He was young, much younger than she'd expected, and her heart went out to him. It didn't seem possible that the silently rocking boy could have murdered three people in cold blood, no matter how obsessive he was.

Captain Ford was standing beside her. His shirt was a little rumpled, and his curly hair was just a bit out of control. She liked the captain; he'd been very kind to her when she'd asked to join Spencer on the case. His detectives seemed to respect him, and she'd only heard good things about him.

In the room with Kyle, Spencer stood up and ran a fatigued hand down his face. Sophie watched him with concern. He still looked exhausted, and she wondered if he'd gotten any sleep the night before.

He glanced at the mirror before leaving the interrogation room and joining Sophie and Ford.

“No luck?” Ford asked, his eyes still on Kyle.

“Nope. Still not speaking. State Medical Records say he's got PDD.”

“Pervasive Development Disorder?” Sophie asked.

“Yeah. I guess he was in hard shape before Alison got to him. History of delusions. In and out of the system. She got him the job at the diner. Really turned his life around.” He shook his head. “What a waste.”

“Well, that explains his obsession with me, then. PDD sometimes manifests that way. You said Alison was his caseworker?”

“And it got her killed.”

“How sad.”

“He was on some pretty heavy anti-psychotics. If he skipped a couple of 'em...”

“Looks as if the profiler was right. Limited intelligence. Thinks he has a personal relationship with Ms. Devereaux.” Ford turned from the glass. “Good work, Detective.”

“I don't know...” Sophie started, then stopped abruptly, biting her lip.

“What is it?”

“Isn't it too neat?”

“Too neat?” Spencer asked.

“I mean the letter, the pictures, Kyle, the evidence.”

“I don't know about in fantasy land, but here in the real world, there's this thing called evidence.”

“I know, but...”

“No buts. It's over. We solved the case. You can go home now.”

She looked at both faces. Neither man was showing a shred of doubt. With a sigh, she accepted their words, but she couldn't silence the niggling in the back of her mind.

XXX

Flynn Carson hummed to himself as he rang Sophie's doorbell. His visit was about business, but he always enjoyed seeing the trio of women who, despite his and Sophie's divorce, were still a part of his family.

Parker opened the door. She was dressed in a black body suit, with her blond hair in disarray around her face.

“Hi!” she said, her face lighting up in a smile. Parker wasn't much of a smiler, but when she did, she smiled with everything she had.

“Hi, Parker. Sophie in?”

“You came to see Sophie?”

“And my favorite ex-sister-in-law, of course.”

“Me?”

“Don't tell Cassie,” he said solemnly.

“Cassie's not here. She's got a date.”

“A date?”

“With a cop.” Parker looked as if she disapproved.

“And you don't like cops because...”

She shrugged. “It's okay.”

Parker led him into the kitchen, and Flynn realized she'd never answered his original question. “Is Sophie here?”

“In her office.”

“Is she writing?” He was surprised and pleased.

“I don't know what she's doing. She's talking to herself.”

“Acting out scenes?”

“Who knows? Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure. I'll have some. I'm going to go in and talk to Sophie. Can you bring it in to me?”

“Okay.”

Flynn left Parker in the kitchen and went down the hall to Sophie's office. He tapped lightly on the door.

“I'm fine, Parker.”

“It's me,” Flynn replied.

“Oh. Come in.”

He opened the door, hoping to see Sophie at her desk typing. Instead, she was curled up on her small couch with a notebook in her lap. She was frowning and impatiently tapping a pen against the paper.

“What's going on?” he asked. “More writers' block?”

“It's this case. It doesn't make sense.”

“Case?”

“The people who were murdered because of my books.” There was sadness in her eyes, though her face didn't show it.

“I heard about that. Are you okay?

“No, I'm not. They arrested someone, but I don't think he's the killer.”

“How do you know...”

“I've been consulting on the case.”

He gave her an incredulous look. 

“Don't look at me like that...and stop hulking. If you're going to be in here, sit down and talk to me.”

It was a fair enough request, so Flynn settled down beside her. He was close enough that their shoulders brushed, and he could smell the faint cinnamon scent of her skin. It was mixed lightly with a new, pleasant scent of vanilla.

“What's bothering you?”

“The details. No one is focusing on the details.”

“Which are?”

Sophie sketched the case out for him quickly, and Flynn listened with interest. She ended with, “Kyle has PDD. He'd never get the details wrong. He's obsessive. And you should have seen him. Alison Tisdale's death destroyed him. I'm just a writer, and no one will listen to me. You believe me, don't you, Flynn?”

“I believe in you.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

“And I know you'll do whatever you think is right, no matter what I say. No matter what anyone says.”

She nodded slowly.

“Now, about your new book.”

She groaned. “Do you think you can get me an extension?”

“I'll try.”

“I'm never going to have it done on time.”

“Have you started?”

“No,” she admitted. “The words just won't come.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

“Anything for my favorite writer.”

XXX

Eliot dreamed of cookies.

He found himself in his mama's kitchen, the one in the old farmhouse they'd lived in before she'd passed away and their father had uprooted the boys and brought them to New York.. Everything about it was familiar, from the potholders on the hook by the stove to the chip in the counter from the time he and Jake had been throwing a baseball back and forth and he'd missed. 

A woman stood at the counter with her back to him, and she was stirring something. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon filled the room. Eliot took a deep breath, enjoying the comforting smell.

There was already a plate of cookies made and waiting on the table. He scooped one up silently as he watched the woman. When he took a bite of the cookie, he realized the baker couldn't be his mama. The cookies were delicious, but they were spicier than he was used to. It tickled his tongue, even as the sweetness warmed him. Curious now, he really looked at his mysterious baker. Her hair was thick and dark around her shoulders, and she was wearing a short, black dress that reached mid thigh above her shapely legs.

She must have heard him behind her because she turned suddenly. Eliot's mouth dropped open when he saw Devereaux's face. She was smiling wickedly. The smile was somehow made sexier because of the smudge of flour across her cheek. She was wearing an apron over her dress, but instead of a cooking apron, it was one normally found as an accessory to an adult's French maid costume.

He woke with a start, feeling confused and out of sorts. Damn that vanilla shampoo, and damn authors who wanted real mysteries to solve, he thought as he got ready for work. It made him cranky that he couldn't banish the dream from his mind, and he was glad he wouldn't have to work with her anymore. It was bad enough the she'd invaded his days; it wasn't fair that he had to give her his nights as well.

He was still cranky when he got to work, and the sight of her at his desk going through his stuff made him even crankier.

“What are you doing?” he growled at her.

“Just looking for a story, Detective—and waiting for you, of course.”

“You know everything about me that you need to.”

She eyed him speculatively. “I don't know. I'm sure there's lots more in there I can coax out if I try hard enough.”

He scowled at her, ignoring the part of himself that wanted to react to her teasing smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh.” She got to her feet. “I wanted to give you this. Since you're a fan.”

“Who said I'm a fan?”

“Just take it,” she said in amusement, her eyes twinkling.

She was holding out a small box with a little bow on it. Eliot took it from her curiously and opened the top. Inside was a copy of Storm Fall, Devereaux's new book. It hadn't even been released yet.

“It's an advanced copy. I signed it to you, but you could always give it to Jake if you don't want it.”

Eliot flipped open the cover to read, “To my favorite detective, love Sophie Devereaux.”

“That was nice of you.”

“It was the least I could do after you let me tag along. I appreciate you letting me help.”

“I was forced to do that.”

Delight danced briefly over her face, and she stepped forward to pat him gently on the cheek. When she did, her scent surrounded him, so much like his dream that it almost made him dizzy.

“You're adorable. I'm so glad I got to meet you.”

He didn't know how to answer that, so he just watched her walk away, bemused and a little turned on. When she disappeared down the hallway, he shook his head and sat in his chair. He took the book out of the box and studied the cover, opening it again to read the flap. He got about halfway through when he realized there was something missing from his desk. Forgetting the book, he put it aside and started searching through his stuff. The file for the Devereaux murders was gone.

“Dammit, Devereaux,” he cursed.

XXX

Sophie sat at Flynn's kitchen table with the contents of the murder file spread out in front of her. She had studied each piece as it came out, noting the occasional fact she hadn't known in a little rose covered notebook. Flynn had left her to her own devices, and so she was using the quiet to help formulate her thoughts. 

She was reading through some of Alison Tisdale's information when there was a disturbance in the other room. She winced as she heard voices, knowing she'd been found a lot sooner than she'd been hoping. Pretending she hadn't heard, she turned her attention back to her notebook.

“Sophie Devereaux.” Spencer's gruff voice held anger that she couldn't fault him for.

She looked up, keeping her face perfectly bland. Spencer entered, trailed by two uniforms and a white faced Flynn.

“You are under arrest,” Spencer continued, biting out the words, “for Felony Theft and Obstruction of Justice.”

“I can explain...” she tried.

“Get to your feet.” She obeyed him, carefully putting down her pad and pen. Spencer glared at her as he took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket.

Despite the situation, Sophie felt a flash of amusement. “If you wanted to play with handcuffs, Detective, you just had to ask.”

She smiled at him sassily and held out her hands. Spencer paused before growling softly under his breath. It was actually rather sexy.

“You have the right to remain silent.” He took her arms gently, despite his stormy expression, and snapped the cuffs around them, not bothering to make her turn around. “Anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford one, one will be appointed to you...”

Sophie listened patiently as he recited her Miranda Rights. She wondered if he realized his hands were still on her wrists.

When he finished, she said, “The roses were wrong. It wasn't just the dress.”

“What?”

“On Alison's body...”

“Stop right there. Here,” he turned to the nearest officer, “take her.”

“Eliot, listen to me,” she protested as she was handed off, and he started scooping up the contents of the file. 

It was obvious he had nothing more to say to her; he wouldn't even look at her, so she meekly let the uniforms lead her out as she thought about the things she'd read in the file.

XXX

Parker sat across from Cassie and Detective Jones, watching them interact with interest. Her sister looked happy, and her words came bubbling out. Detective Jones listened attentively, and he seemed nice enough, but Parker couldn't decide whether she liked him or not. There was a bit of hardness in his eyes and a hint of a smirk to his mouth. She'd tried to tell Cassie this when she'd first met him, but Cassie had blown her off, saying that Parker didn't like anybody.

That wasn't true. Parker liked Cassie. And Sophie. And Flynn. Oh, and the woman who'd taught her gymnastics and the woman who ran the shelter where she worked.

“Would you like to go to a movie?” Jones was asking. His accent was like Sophie's but not quite the same. Parker liked his voice.

“That would be fun.” Cassie's eyes were shining.

“Can I come?” Parker blurted, though she knew it was inappropriate.

Jones turned to her, but he didn't look annoyed. He studied her for a moment before saying, “Sure.”

Cassie's cell rang, and she checked to see who was calling. “It's Sophie.” 

“Sophie?” They hadn't seen Sophie since that morning. She'd gone out telling them not to expect her back until late.

Cassie answered the call, and Parker watched her anxiously. Something about her expression was off, and it made Parker worry. 

Cassie's expression was still strange when she hung up and said, “We've got to go.”

“Go where?”

“Sophie's been arrested.”

That was the last thing Parker expected to hear. “Arrested?”

“She stole the file for the Alison Tisdale case.”

Parker frowned. This had to be that Detective Spencer's fault. Before she met him, Sophie had never been arrested. Parker's feelings on Detective Jones were ambiguous, but she knew she did not like Detective Spencer. “So, we've got to go bail her out?”

“That's probably a good idea.”

“You need to go to the station?” Detective Jones got to his feet. “I'll drive you. I was headed there anyway.”

The smile Cassie gave him was warm. “Thank you, Ezekiel.”

XXX

Eliot's head throbbed as he waited in the bullpen for the uniforms to bring Devereaux up from holding. He was having a very bad day, one that had started with that damned dream and culminated in his arresting Devereaux for Obstruction of Justice. He rubbed his forehead, trying to massage the pain away, as he listened to two young women chattering away with Captain Ford about the nature of Devereaux's crimes. Well, one of them chattered. The blond glared at Eliot silently, animosity coming off her in waves. It was as if, in her eyes, he'd been the one to betray Devereaux's trust instead of the other way around.

“She can't be messing with this case,” Ford was saying to the red head.

“I know. Sophie just cares too much. She wants to make things right for everybody.”

“Stealing reports...”

“I'll talk to her.”

Eliot guessed this must be Cassie, the worrier. That would make the glarer Parker.

For once, Devereaux looked properly subdued when she appeared. She walked meekly between the two uniforms, absently rubbing her wrists. Eliot felt a twinge of concern. Had he put the cuffs on too tight?

“I see you've met my sisters,” she said.

“Sophie, what were you thinking?” Cassie scolded. “You stole a case file. You got arrested.”

“I think she was framed.” Parker scowled at Eliot, and he wondered about her grasp on reality.

“I wasn't framed, Parker. I really took the file.” To Ford, she said, “I apologize, Captain, but I had a good reason.”

“Around here, we don't just go taking confidential files,” he told her sternly. “I'll let your sisters take you home and drop the charges if you promise not to interfere any more in this case.”

She looked at him, one of her perfect teeth gnawing her bottom lip.

“Miss Devereaux?”

Her gaze traveled from Parker to Cassie, then to Ford, and finally came to rest on Eliot. Her eyes were troubled, but she just said quietly, “You have the wrong man.”

“That's not the right answer.”

She studied him for a few seconds before saying, “I promise to behave and not break the law again.”

“All right.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Trust my detectives, Miss Devereaux. They know what they're doing.”

“I hope you're right, Captain.” She looked at Eliot again, her face more serious than he'd ever seen it, and it began to dawn on him that he'd been wrong—about her and maybe about this case. “Come on, girls, let's go home.”

XXX

After Devereaux left with her sisters, Eliot started thinking about what she'd been saying. There had been something niggling at the back of his mind, but he'd been ignoring it because Kyle Cabbot was a good collar.

As he sat there, staring at the murder victims, he thought about Devereaux and the lengths she'd gone through to make him listen to her. Without her meddling, he might not have given the case a second thought, and that bothered him.

“What's going on?” Baird asked, coming to sit down beside him.

Reluctantly, he admitted, “I'm starting to think Devereaux is right.”

“That's something I never thought I'd hear you say.”

“Things look good on the surface, but...”

“But what? Talk it out.”

“Something's been bothering me.”

“What?”

“Why would Kyle kill a random person from the diner, then go personal with Alison, and then go back to a random stranger?”

“Convenience?”

“And Devereaux kept harping on the details. An obsessive wouldn't get the details wrong. The dress. The flowers. The murder weapon.”

“Murder weapon?”

“In Hell Hath no Fury, the victim was smothered.”

“You're right. Kyle, wouldn't get those wrong, would he?”

Eliot shook his head. “Dammit. I was so sure she was full of hot air, I wouldn't listen to what she was saying.”

“But you're listening now.”

“Yeah.”

“If not Kyle, then who?”

“Someone who knew Kyle's history. Someone who knew one of the victims. Alison, probably. She was the one who knew Kyle, and I'm thinking the killer found out about him through her.”

“Makes sense.”

“We need to find out who wanted to kill Alison so bad he—or she—killed two other people to cover it up?”

“So we start asking questions.”

“We start asking questions.”

XXX

Knowing she was flirting with getting into some real trouble, Sophie walked into the office on the twelfth floor anyway. It was modern and clean, with simple, hard lines. A young woman, maybe Cassie's age, sat behind a solid, imposing desk. She had a pleasant face and freckles that danced across a pert little nose. As Sophie approached, the secretary looked up and smiled. Sophie automatically smiled back.

“Hello, I'm Ms. Devereaux. I have an appointment with Mr. Tisdale.”

“Yes, Ms. Devereaux. He's ready for you.”

“How about me?” A voice behind her asked. “Is he ready for me?”

Sophie turned in surprise to see Detective Spencer standing behind her with his badge in his hand. She winced.

“Are you going to arrest me again?”

“Now, who's eager to play with handcuffs?”

She stared at him, her mouth slightly open. He winked at her, and she felt suddenly as if she'd fallen down the rabbit hole.

“I'll be going in with Ms. Devereaux,” he said to the secretary. “All right?”

“Go ahead, Detective.” Then she seemed to remember her duty. “If that's all right with you, Ms. Devereaux.”

Sophie mentally shook off her surprise and kept her face expressionless as she said, “That's fine.”

Still feeling disconnected from reality, Sophie followed Detective Spencer into the office of Jonathan Tisdale, Alison's father.

His office, in contrast to the main room, was old money. Rich, dark wood and dark green velvet. Antique books in glassed over cases and an old globe in the corner that she was sure was a bar.

The man behind the desk was probably in his sixties, with sad, solemn eyes that had dark smudges around them. Sophie studied his face carefully, willing it to give away all the man's secrets.

“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Tisdale,” Spencer said politely, respect—either for the man or for the dead—in his voice.

He nodded. “I just want my little girl to find justice. She didn't deserve this.”

“I understand.” Spencer's voice held a gentleness Sophie had never heard before, and her gaze went to him.

“You wanted to ask me some questions.”

“Yes, sir. Did Alison ever mention being frightened or threatened? Was there anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”

“No.” He sounded a little choked up. “People loved her. All she wanted was to a make the world a better place. I told all this to the other detective.”

“We're just following up.”

Sophie felt sorry for the distraught father, but she had to ask, “Do you know if anyone might have profited from her death?”

Mr. Tisdale frowned at her. “I may be rich, but my daughter was not. She abhorred money. What little she had, she gave to charity.”

Sophie nodded her head. “Fortune Magazine estimated your net worth at almost a hundred million dollars.”

“That sounds right. Why?”

Sophie felt Spencer looking at her curiously, but she ignored him. “I was just wondering what happens to your money if something happens to you.”

“Devereaux...” It was a soft warning from Spencer.

Her eyes were still on Tisdale's. She saw the tick before he spoke, and it verified what she'd been thinking.

“Half of my estate goes to my charitable foundation, and the rest to my chil...” He cleared his throat. “My son. The rest goes to my son.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tisdale. We're sorry to have bothered you. Are you coming, Eliot?”

Detective Spencer jerked as if she'd pinched him, and Sophie kept her amusement out of her features. She swayed her hips just a little bit as she walked from the room, not looking back to see if he would follow.

XXX

“Spill it, Devereaux,” Eliot growled as soon as they were out of the building.

She was smiling slyly, her eyes smug. It was a sexy look but not when she was messing with his head.

“A writer, much like a detective, sees things other people miss. A good writer watches people and can see things they try to hide.”

“What the hell does that mean?” His hair was down, and he ran a hand through it in frustration.

“Did you notice the pictures in his office?”

“Of him and his kids? Sure.”

“He's lost a lot of weight.”

“People lose weight.”

She shook her head. “I think he's sick, Eliot. Really sick. He kept touching his hair.”

Eliot remembered the last time he discounted her words. “A piece?”

“A good one but new. And he was wearing make up.”

He nodded slowly. “Trying to look healthy.”

“I think so. It might cause problems if his shareholders found out too soon.”

“Good catch.” Eliot rubbed his jaw and added, “You think we should question the brother, don't you?”

“Half of a hundred million dollars is a pretty big motive.”

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. He'd been thinking the same thing.

She was so excited, she was almost bouncing. Normally, her every gesture was restrained, even when she was smiling or teasing. Now, she'd loosened. He wondered if this is how she looked when she was writing.

“Then what are we waiting for? “ she asked, “Where's your car?”

XXX

Harrison Tisdale's office was nothing like his father's. It was a small, hole-in-the-wall that was crowded with just a desk and some filing cabinets. A calendar featuring nude women hung on the wall, and the desk was covered in paper.

Tisdale himself was young and dressed well, but his hair was long and shaggy, and he was slightly untidy.

“We can talk more privately in here,” he said as he led Sophie and Detective Spencer into the room. Closing the door, he muted the sounds of the work being performed on the other side.

Sophie felt a bit uneasy being in the room with him despite the fact that he looked completely innocuous. He reminded her a bit of Todd. She casually took a step closer to Detective Spencer.

“You were asking about the last time I saw her?” Tisdale asked, leaning against his desk. “It was about a month ago. At Dad's. You know, I still can't believe she's gone.”

“Were you close?” Sophie asked, watching his face as she had his father's.

He dropped his eyes. “Everybody loved her. My sister, she just wanted to see the best in people. Even that kid who killed her. You know, she did everything she could to help that guy; she even brought him around here once to see if I'd give him a job.”

“Did you?” Spencer asked. His eyes were cold.

“I couldn't afford to, all right? My employees mess up, I lose my bond. I don't know...Maybe if I'd helped him, things'd be different.”

If he were the killer, his mask was very good. Sophie wondered what it would take to crack it. “How did your sister deal with the news that your father was dying?”

“What?” He looked startled but quickly smoothed his features. “She was upset. We both were.”

She felt satisfaction settle in her belly. She was right about that, at least.

“With her dead, you are in line to inherit an awful lot of money.” Spencer's voice was as cold as his eyes.

Tisdale frowned. “What are you trying to say? I thought you caught the killer.”

“I'm just doing my job, Mr. Tisdale. I have to eliminate all doubt. If I don't, a killer could walk. Do you want your sister's killer to walk?”

“Of course not.”

“Where were you when your sister died?”

Tisdale pushed himself upright and walked around the desk. Opening one of the drawers, he answered, “I was traveling on business. Actually, I was out of the country for all three murders.”

He pulled out a passport and handed it to Spencer. Sophie frowned when the detective flipped it open to reveal the stamps.

“See? I was nowhere near New York when any of them died.”

Sophie felt herself deflate. She'd been so sure.

“Mind if I hang on to this?” Detective Spencer asked.

Tisdale shrugged. “No. Go ahead.”

“Thanks. We won't take up any more of your time.”

XXX

Sophie was subdued all the way back to the station. Harrison Tisdale would have wrapped everything up in a neat little package. Now that he had an alibi, she didn't know where they'd turn next. Maybe Aliosn's killer would never be caught. Maybe Kyle would end up going to prison for a crime he didn't commit.

She was surprised that Spencer wasn't more cranky. Everything seemed to make him cranky, but somehow Tisdale's alibi did not. He was quiet as they drove but no more quiet than usual, and no tension was coming from him.

At the station, he ushered her into the bullpen ahead of him. Baird and Hardison were working but looked up when Sophie and Spencer entered.

“Well?” Hardison asked.

“He did it,” Spencer replied.

“Wait. What?” Sophie stared at him.

“What do you mean, what? The man's obviously guilty.”

“But his alibi...”

Spencer grinned one of his rare, devastating grins. “You fell for that?”

“What happened?” Baird asked, so Spencer outlined their visit with the younger Tisdale.

“He's good,” Hardison agreed when he was finished, “but he should have known we wouldn't fall for that.”

“It doesn't matter,” Baird told him. “We have no proof, not with the passport to back him up.”

“Okay,” Sophie interrupted, “somebody please tell me what I'm missing.”

“You tell us,” Spencer prodded, suddenly looking her in the eye. His own eyes were intense, but she didn't look away. 

“Just tell me, Eliot.”

“It's obvious.” He waved the passport at her. “I get him knowing where he was when his sister was murdered, but the other two? He had no reason to know that, not off hand, and no reason to mention it. He didn't even pause or ask for dates. Hell, he didn't even glance at his calendar.”

“Innocent people don't prepare alibis,” Baird added.

Sophie thought back to their conversation with Harrison Tisdale. He did give them his passport awfully quickly. “So, I was right? It was him.”

“But we have to prove it,” Hardison said. “A US passport is a pretty powerful alibi.”

“So, what do we do?”

“I'll need to make a call. Have a seat.”

Sophie sat down in a hard chair in front of Spencer's desk as Hardison made his call. “I can't believe you let me believe he didn't do it.”

“It was humbling,” Spencer replied lightly, leaning against his desk. His thigh brushed her arm, and she was momentarily distracted.

“What?” she asked when she realized what he'd said. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He looked down at her and raised his eyebrows playfully. Her stomach fluttered, and she decided she liked this side of him. She bumped his leg with her elbow in reply but didn't say anything.

“Okay, thanks,” Hardison finished up on the phone.

“What did they say?” Baird asked.

“According to his credit card, he paid for three round trip tickets.”

“And the dates?”

“Match the murders.”

“So, he was out of the country?” Sophie felt her stomach sink.

“You're not going to start giving up this easily now, are you?” Spencer said. “There has to be another explanation.”

“He forged the stamps?” Baird suggested.

Spencer pointed at her, and Hardison said, “Passport Control can check the logs.”

Sophie thought about this. Forged stamps wouldn't be the way she'd do it. If she were writing the story, she'd go a completely different route. “What about a second passport?”

She felt Spencer go still against her. “A second passport?”

“He's rich enough to acquire one on the black market. It would be a lot easier than counterfeiting government documents.”

“So, he could leave the country with one and come back with the other to commit the murders,” Baird said thoughtfully. “It makes sense.”

“And without that second passport, it's impossible to prove,” Hardison added.

“Eliot, we've got to find that second passport. If we upset him today, he could be home destroying it.”

He straightened up, the lightness gone from his face. His expression was almost scary as he went from relaxed to focused in a minute. To Baird and Hardison, he said, “You two keep an eye on him and let me know if he does anything suspicious. I'm going to see about getting a warrant.”

XXX

Eliot approached Judge Markway warily. He'd only dealt with him a few times in the past, and he hadn't quite figured out what made Markway tick. The judge was a pleasant enough man, but Eliot had no idea how he'd react to the request for a search warrant for a member of one of the richest families in the city.

As they approached the judge, Eliot wondered how to open up the discussion. He was still pondering it when Markway turned and his face lit up. Eliot hesitated until he realized the judge was beaming at Devereaux. 

He should have known, really. She seemed to have that effect on everybody. Even he wasn't immune—the more time he spent with her, the more he liked her—but he'd be damned if he let her know.

“Sophie,” the judge said, coming up to them.

“Hi, John.” She gave him a smile so dazzling it was a wonder he didn't go blind. “It's good to see you again.” She touched his arm. “How are you?”

“I can't complain. How about you? I haven't seen you since Marie's last charity thing.”

“I'm doing well, and how is Marie? I heard she took quite a tumble.”

“Yeah. She broke her arm, but the cast should be off in a couple of weeks.”

“Give her my best, won't you?” she said warmly.

“I will.” He seemed to suddenly remember that Eliot was there. Turning to him, Markway asked, “You said you needed to talk to me about a matter of some urgency, Detective?”

“Yes, sir. I need a search warrant.”

“For Harrison Tisdale's home and office,” Devereaux added. Her hand was still on Markway's arm.

“Harrison Tisdale? As in Jonathan Tisdale's son?” 

“Yes,” Eliot confirmed. “We have reason to believe he murdered three people, including his sister.”

“Murder? The Tisdales?” He looked at Devereaux, who nodded solemnly.

“His father's dying, and he stands to inherit a sizable amount of money,” she told him.

“What? I just saw him at a benefit.”

“He's hiding it well. Make up.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, “but without the warrant, we can't prove it.” His phone rang. “Excuse me, sir...Spencer.”

“Hey.” It was Hardison.

“What's going on?”

“Our boy's on the move.”

“Damn. I was hoping we'd have more time. Thanks.” When he hung up, Devereaux was looking at him expectantly. “He left work.”

“Probably to destroy the evidence.” She turned a pleading gaze on Markway. The judge blinked, and Eliot could see the moment he gave in.

“Are you sure you can tie him to the other victims?”

“Through a patient of his sister's that he's trying to frame. He did a pretty good job of it, but Detective Spencer saw through it.”

Eliot's gaze snapped to her, surprised that she'd given him the credit.

Markway sighed. “It's days like this I wish I was back in Civil Division.”

“Then we've got it?” Eliot clarified.

“Yes, Detective, you've go it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, John.” Sophie squeezed his arm and gifted him with another smile.

XXX

They arrived at Tisdale's apartment just as two marked cars drove up. Jones was in front of the building talking to someone and looking uncharacteristically serious.

Eliot glanced at Devereaux to see her eyes shining with excitement. His brain told him that he should remind her how serious the situation was. The rest of him wanted to smile with her and share her giddy feeling. He did neither. Instead, he opened his car door and got out. She followed, and when Jones saw them, he hurried over.

“Well?” Eliot asked.

“Junior's tens of millions in debt.”

He nodded, not surprised.

“He shouldn't have trouble paying it off,” Devereaux commented, “not with getting both halfs of the family fortune.”

“Hello, Ms. Devereaux.”

“Hello, Ezekiel.”

Since when was Devereaux on a first name basis with Jones?

“How's Cassie?”

“Angry with me at the moment.”

He laughed. “You did get arrested.”

“Focus,” Eliot growled, and they both turned to look at him.

He studied Devereaux, who didn't look at all chastened. He thought about the fact that they were going to confront a dangerous criminal who was armed and had already killed three people, and he thought about the fact that she was the only one among them without a vest. 

“Devereaux, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“All right.”

He motioned her towards the car, where she'd left the passenger door open in her excitement.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don't want you going in there.”

“Don't be concerned. I'll stay out of the way.”

“You don't have a vest. I don't want you in there at all.”

“Please don't tell me you're going to make me stay in the car.”

“Of course I am.”

“But you made me stay in the car last time,” she protested.

“No, I ordered you to stay in the car, but you didn't listen.”

“So what makes you think I'll stay this time? Are you going to handcuff me to the car?” She sounded a bit petulant, but he refused to bend. 

“I considered it. Am I going to have to?”

“You and your handcuffs. Is this some kind of foreplay with you?”

She was trying to distract him, but he refused to let her. “Promise me you'll stay in the car.”

She sighed. “Eliot...”

“Promise me.” 

He put his hand on her shoulder. She looked into his face, meeting his gaze. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“I promise I'll stay in the car.”

He believed her, which was a new feeling. “I know you think it's exciting, Sophie, but it's dangerous. I don't want you to get hurt. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” She touched him, just a brief brush of fingers against his free arm and, suddenly, it was hard to breathe.

“Spencer?” Jones called behind him, and he hastily dropped his hand.

“Be careful,” she said as he pulled away.

“Get in the car,” was his gruff answer.

He waited until she did so before turning to join Jones and the uniforms.

XXX

Sophie sat in the car trying to ignore the urge to follow Detective Spencer and the others. She was determined to keep her promise, even if it killed her. Something in the way he'd looked at her made her want to keep her word, and she was hoping she'd get to explore what it was and its effects later.

Still, staying in the car was difficult. She could only imagine what was going on in there. Spencer would be leading the others up the stairs, and his face would be cold and intense. When they got to Tidsdale's door, he'd pound on it forcefully, shouting his name and reason for being there. She watched the building intently, wishing she could see through walls.

All was quiet for several minutes, and she bit her lip, wondering what was happening. She twined her fingers in her lap to keep them from reaching for the door handle. 

From her vantage point, she could see both sides of the building, and she watched with surprise as a window opened and a male form popped out onto the fire escape. Sophie continued to watched in disbelief as the figure, carrying a clear bag full of paper, looked around nervously.

Harrison Tisdale.

Without thinking, she opened the car door as she watched him hurrying down the steps. No one else was around, and the day was so quiet she could hear Tisdale's feet on the metal stairs.

“Tisdale!” she cried, running forward.

He turned and looked at her as he reached the bottom.

“Spencer!” She yelled. “He's on the fire escape.”

Tisdale's eyes practically burned into her, but she didn't stop running. She barely registered that he had a gun.

Detective Spencer's head appeared at the window. “Stop. Police. Don't move.”

Tisdale's eyes went from Sophie to Spencer. He snarled before taking off down the alley. Spencer cursed under his breath and started climbing out the window.

Worried Tisdale would get away and hurt somebody else, Sophie kept chasing him.

“Get back here, Devereaux.”

“He'll get away!”

Tidsale ducked behind a van, and Sophie followed, not sure what she'd do when she caught up to him. Suddenly, an arm was wrapping around her and pulling her against a slim body. The sour odour of sweat surrounded her, and a gun was pressed to her temple.

Sophie's breath caught and she froze.

“Not one word, lady,” Tisdale whispered harshly. “I might as well go down for four as three.”

Her heart pounded. She swallowed and tried to calm her breathing.

She saw Spencer peek around the side of the van. His eyes met hers, and she could see he was angry. If she lived through this, he'd probably kill her. The thought made her want to laugh, though it wasn't all that funny.

“Don't come any closer!” Tisdale held her in front of himself, blocking any fire from Spencer.

“Put the gun down, Tisdale.”

“Listen to him, Harrison,” Sophie said, forcing her voice to remain even.

“Shut up, or I will shoot you.”

“You won't shoot me.”

“Put the gun down,” Spencer repeated. “There's no way out of this.”

“Shut up! I'm trying to think.” His arm tightened.

“You can't get away.”

“I'm taking the writer lady, and I'm walking away. Shoot her, if you want to.” He backed up, and Sophie had no choice but to follow.

“It will go easier for you if you cooperate,” she told him reasonably.

“I told you to shut up!” The gun dug painfully into the side of her head.

“Let her go,” Spencer demanded sternly.

“She's my insurance. You can't have her until I'm done with her.”

Sophie made a face. “You're not my type.”

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”

“Devereaux, you okay?”

“Could be better. And you, Detective?”

Tisdale growled.

“It's all right, Harrison,” Sophie said soothingly. “I understand. After all, it couldn't have been easy when your father turned down your request for financial aid. He didn't understand how much you needed him.”

“He didn't care. He didn't care about anything but her.”

“It's hard to be the one your parents dismiss,” Sophie agreed, thinking about her own relationship with her mother.

“Shut up,” he said again, but this time it was subdued. He was listening to what she was saying.

“Is that why you killed her? You wanted your father to lose what was most important to him before he died as a punishment for not loving you?”

His arm loosened. “How did you...”

“Put down the gun, Harrison.”

“What? No!”

“You don't want to kill me. You didn't want to kill anyone. You just hurt too much.”

“This is bullshit,” he said angrily. “We're going to...”

When he'd relaxed, Sophie had noticed something that had taken all of her fear away. Before he could get wound back up again, she kicked back, connecting with his knee. He let out a squeak and let go of her, so she threw her elbow back as hard as she could. Harrison grunted and dropped his gun, so she kicked it so hard it scuttled across the alley before she jumped away from him.

“Freeze!” Spencer demanded, pointing his gun.

Harrison lifted his hands in defeat as he gasped for breath. Spencer eyed him to make sure he wouldn't make any sudden moves before holstering his gun and taking out his handcuffs.

“Those self defense classes I took the girls to really paid off,” Sophie said a little breathlessly.

“What the hell were you doing?” Spencer demanded as he cuffed Tisdale.

“I caught the bad guy.”

“You could have been killed.” His voice was angry and tight.

“The safety was on.”

“What?”

“I noticed while he was holding me.”

He looked at her and opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. He closed it and shook his head before turning to Tisdale and reading him his Rights.

Sophie thought any day she rendered Eliot Spencer speechless was a good day.

XXX

About an hour later, standing with him in front of her apartment building, Sophie felt both sad and elated. She'd really enjoyed her time with Detective Spencer, and solving a real crime had been exhilarating.

“So, this is it?” she asked softly.

“I guess so. You did a good job.”

She had a feeling Spencer didn't use praise lightly, and she warmed under his words. “What will happen to Kyle?”

“He'll be set free.”

“Will he get the help he needs?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Kids like him tend to fall through the cracks.”

Not this one, she told herself, deciding to make some calls as soon as she got inside. She wasn't Jonathan Tisdale wealthy, but she was well off enough that people took notice when she spoke.

“Thanks for bringing me home.”

Amusement danced in his blue eyes. “I couldn't see making you walk.”

“It would have been good for my figure,” she teased.

He looked her up and down. “Your figure's fine.”

“Was that a compliment? Two compliments in one conversation. I think you're starting to like me, Detective.”

He waved this off. “I never said I didn't like you.”

“It feels good, doesn't it?”

“What?” he asked, watching her.

“Taking down a bad guy, helping the dead rest a little easier.”

“You care about the dead.” It was a comment, not a question.

“It was Alison Tisdale's eyes.”

He nodded in understanding.

“At least now I know she didn't die because of me. It was greed and pain, not my words.” He was quiet, though he still watched her face. Unwilling to reveal any more of herself to his silent, steady presence, she said, “I should go in.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you come to my New York author reading?”

“Can I bring Jake?”

She laughed softly. “Sure.”

“Great. See you around, Devereaux. You're okay.”

“Thank you, Detective.” Before she could change her mind, she moved in closer and kissed his cheek. His skin was warm, and his stubble tickled her lips. His solid body smelled amazing, and she was tempted to linger. She closed her eyes briefly, imprinting the smell and the feel and the taste of him into her mind. She wanted to remember him.

As she turned away, he caught her gently, his hand on her arm. His face was serious, but his eyes were smiling as he pulled her back towards him. In surprise, she let him and was treated to a quick, soft kiss on the lips. Her body tingled and her stomach broke out in butterflies. She was still trying to process what was happening when it ended.

Detective Spencer pulled from her, and a small, mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He winked and said, “That's for luck.”

Sophie's fingers went to her lips as he rounded the car and got inside. He glanced at her once before he pulled away, and she raised her hand to say good bye. He nodded and waved back.

When he was gone, Sophie had a terrible feeling that she had just lost something, something she hadn't even known she'd had.

She frowned, hugging herself. Suddenly, someone started speaking in her mind. The words were describing Detective Spencer, and Sophie's fingers started to twitch.

“Oh,” she said, forgetting everything but the voice, and hurried into the building.

XXX

“This is good,” Jake said, taking a bite of the pasta Eliot had made to celebrate closing the Devereaux case. Cooking was his way of relaxing, and he enjoyed sharing his passion for it with his brother.

“Thanks. I decided to throw in some celery.”

“It works.” He took another bite, chewed, and swallowed before adding, “So, you closed the case?”

“Yeah. It was the brother. Devereaux called it.”

“She's smart,” he commented.

“She talked the gun right out of his hand.”

“You sound impressed.”

“She did a good job for an amateur.”

“And a compliment.”

Eliot snorted. “Don't read too much into it.”

“Good.”

“Good what?” Eliot studied Jake's face.

“I'm thinking about asking her out.”

Eliot was momentarily stunned. “You want to go out with her?”

He shrugged. “I like her.”

“I thought you had a crush on Baird.”

Jake pointed his fork at him. “Shut up.”

“Listen, buddy, the writer is not for you.”

“Why not?”

Eliot couldn't answer that. He just knew that thoughts of his brother with Devereaux turned his stomach to lead. “She's just not. Now, can we talk about something else?”

XXX

Parker wandered out of the living room where Cassie and Detective Jones were watching TV. She'd decided that she mostly liked him, but she wished he wasn't taking up so much of Cassie's time. Still, it was nice that he didn't mind if Parker joined them sometimes.

As she walked down the hallway towards their small library, she heard the clacking of keys coming from Sophie's office. She stopped and concentrated, just to make sure. When she continued to hear the noise, she grinned and opened the door, even though she was never supposed to disturb Sophie when she was writing.

“Sophie!” she said excitedly.

Sophie was sitting at her desk in front of her laptop, but she looked up when Parker came in.

“You're writing!”

“I'm writing,” she confirmed.

“What are you writing? Can I come in?”

“Yes. I could use a break.”

Parker went in and shut the door, settling down on the couch. “So, tell me.”

“It's about a police detective. He's a little gruff and rough around the edges, but he cares about the dead.”

“Like Detective Spencer?” Parker didn't know how she felt about that. She still blamed him for being mean to Sophie and then arresting her.

“Yes, like him. I watched him a lot this week, and he's good, Parker. Really good.”

“But you were the one who figured it out.”

“I could very well have been wrong.”

“I guess.”

“I like the way he thinks.”

“You like him,” she accused, folding her arms.

“You already knew that.”

“No, I mean you really like him.”

Sophie thought about that. “Maybe you're right. He'll make a fascinating character.”

“If you say so.”

“Just wait until you read this one. It may be my best one yet.”

“Well, at least they'll stop sending Flynn over here to beat the pages out of you.”

“Parker!”

“He doesn't really beat you,” Parker admitted.

“If you're not going to be helpful, then shoo.”

“Okay.” She got to her feet, not in the least insulted. “I'm going to order in. Is Chinese all right?”

“More than all right. Thanks.”

XXX

Todd Stevens was in his living room reading a Raymond Chandler novel when his doorbell rang. He looked at the very expensive clock on his mantle and frowned. It was after ten o'clock. What kind of idiot went to visit another without calling after ten o'clock at night?

With a sigh, he put aside his book and went to look out the peephole. There was a man on the other side. He was holding a package and a clipboard, and he looked bored. There was a knit cap pulled low over his ears, and his face was covered by at least a day's worth of stubble. He was dressed casually in jeans and a light jacket. Todd considered ignoring him, but curiosity about the package had him opening the door.

“Todd Stevens?” the guy asked pleasantly.

“Yes.”

Todd reached out his hands, expecting the man to pass him the clipboard. Instead, the courier dropped both the clipboard and the package to the step. One clattered and the other clunked against the concrete. 

Todd's eyes widened in surprise, and he was completely unprepared for the heavy punch to his stomach. The air all escaped him in a rush, and he choked and doubled over. As he stood there gasping for breath, the man snarled at him and bent to pick up the items he'd dropped.

It was awhile before Todd could straighten, and when he finally did, his assailant was long gone.

XXX

Eliot was thinking how quiet it was as he walked up to his desk and hung his jacket over the back of the chair. There was no writer chattering, distracting him, or getting in the way. It was nice, but he almost missed her. The feel of her lips was still imprinted on his, and when he'd walked by a bakery that morning, he'd closed his eyes and thought of her.

“Hey, Spencer,” Hardison said, “Cap'n wants to see you.”

“Thanks.”

He went over and knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” Ford answered.

When Eliot opened the door, he was surprised to see the object of his thoughts standing there. She smiled softly when she saw him, and he noticed she was dressed in sensible jeans and a red shirt.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi.”

“You wanted to see me, sir?” he said to Ford, trying to ignore Devereaux.

“The mayor just called, and I think you'll find what he had to say interesting.”

“The mayor, sir?”

“Apparently, you have a fan.” He indicated Devereaux.

“I want to write about you,” she told him, coming close enough for her scent to tease him.

“What?”

“A whole series of novels about a character based on you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because I like you,” she said this warmly, and he felt the warmth inside of his body.

“She wants to do research.”

Eliot's gaze went back to him. “Research on what?”

“You, of course,” Devereaux answered.

He looked at Ford helplessly. “Is she saying what I think she's saying?”

“I'm afraid so. Both the Mayor and the Commissioner have approved this.”

“But she's a civilian, sir.”

“A civilian who helped solve this case.”

Eliot couldn't argue with that. “So, I have no choice.”

“Not really.”

He sighed. “For how long?”

“That's up to her.”

His gaze snapped to Devereaux to find her smiling in a decidedly wicked way.

“Come on, Eliot,” she said, taking his arm and making his pulse jump. “It'll be fun.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be part of the Heroine Big Bang on LJ, but I decided to post it on its own instead.


End file.
